Billionaire Secrets of a Wanglorious Bastard (11 page)

“Who's this munchkin?”

“Just a photo of a little boy.”

I put it down and looked over her script. It was about an arraigned marriage gone awry.
 

“That's my short,” she added.
 

“What's the budget look like?”

“I dunno, but it'll be on digital.”

“I could do a budget for you.”

“Awww.” She switched to baby talk. “Thawt's the bestest thwing I evew heawd.”

My eyes popped out of my head and chills ran up my spine. Fortunately, her friend called before I could start retching.

For all you ladies out there, stop the madness. Baby talk is a turnoff. I know plenty of guys who broke up with their girlfriends because they started talking like a baby. Unless they were pedos.
 

She would speak in baby talk every so often over the span of a few dates. I tried so many tactics to stop her from baby talking, even going so far as to suggest that her natural voice was so sexy and womanly, but it didn't work.
 

As if the baby talk wasn't bad enough, she would respond to any sexual reference made in a movie, commercial, television show, or story as “icky,” “tewwible,” or “gwoss.” Her rationale? “I don't know why anyone would want to do it.” None of the virgins I knew engaged in such behavior. As a matter of fact, most virgins try to disguise their celibacy unless you're near the point of no return with them or bring it up. The only folks I've known who act virginal are far from it or from cultures/religions that frown upon premarital sex.
 

A few days later, we were hanging with her friend Josefina after watching
Eyes Wide Shut
, and spoke about the Tom Cruise/Nicole Kidman divorce. She and Josefina were talking about how painful it must be, especially since they have kids.

“At least they were adopted, so it's not that bad,” I muttered.

“What the hell does that mean?” Josefina warbled.

“It's not their blood, so they can't be that attached. I mean, it's like sharing a dog.”

“That's bullshit!” Josefina barked.

“Think about it. If the divorce is painful, Tom doesn't have to look at his kid and see Nicole.”

“The kid could be just like her.”

“Could be, but she won't look anything like her, so the visual effect isn't going to be as jarring as noticing mannerisms. Besides, if he can't get custody, why should he care? It's not his blood.”

Kimmi interjected, “Do you think adopted kids aren't as loved?”

“Nope.”

“You're full of shit.” Josefina fumed. Kimmi was silent. I played with my food.

Later that night, I spoke about the situation with my mother. Yes, I still spoke to my mother
 

“Rufus, that's ridiculous.”

“But they're adopted.”

“Yes, but imagine if you were unable to have kids because you're too old or infertile. You think you'll never have kids even though you want to. Plenty of people who can't give birth to children feel so blessed to finally have them through adoption that they treat them better than birth parents.”

“I never thought about that.”

“For all you know the girls you were speaking to could be adopted.”

“Fuck.”

“Rufus.”

“Sorry for cursing.”

“You're in New York. That's what they do there, right?”

I spoke to Kimmi about my newfound understanding. We saw
The House of Mirth
, which was about Lily Bart, a ravishing Victorian-era spinster who had been brought up to be ornamental, and yet her spirit yearned for more, so she died alone after being relegated to making hats in a factory. Afterward, Kimmi broke down and cried.

“What am I doing with my life, Rufus?”

“It's okay.”

“No, it isn't. I'm going to die alone after making hats in a factory, just like Lily Bart.”

It was so preposterous that I fought to keep a straight face.

“No you're not.”

“Uh-huh.”
 

“You wont be making hats in a factory. Maybe shoes, but not hats.”

“Stop it.” she giggled over her tears.

“Besides, all those jobs are overseas and for girls half your age. So you're stuck being a lawyer or filmmaker.”

“Oh, Rufus. For the days when men would court women while wearing suits.”

I didn't know if this was a thinly veiled insult/suggestion or an indication that I had crossed that horrid line into the friend zone. Not any friend zone, but the dickless, “no poon for you” friend zone.

One night, while we were headed back from dinner, she told me she was having second thoughts about pursuing her film interest. I tried to console her about following her dreams, especially at this point in her life when she had no ties or commitments like kids or debt. When the cab stopped in front of her building, she asked me to come up. I thought this was it. It was 3 a.m., after all, so what else do you go up for? I tried to control my schlongitude, and thankfully, I was wearing loose-fitting shit over my pants, so I went up.

Her roommates were asleep and she took me to her bedroom. She said she was going to take a shower, and I was PSYCHED! She returned in kiddie pajamas and I lost my erection.

“I have something to tell you.”

Fuck, did she have the burn?

“Okay.”

“Remember when you said I can do what I want because I don't have kids?”

Don't tell me she—

“I have a son.”

She picked up the baby photo.

“In law school, I met an older Italian man. I was in love and got pregnant. He was married and left the country.”

“That's terrible.”

“I took a year off. My parents sent me down south to have the child and immediately placed him for adoption with this family.”

It was the older couple. The photo must've been at least ten years old.

“So, you see, I do have a kid, so I was hurt by your constant mantra of doing what I want because I don't have any.”

I was floored and flustered, but recovered. “I'm sorry for any pain I caused you, but I didn't mean it like that. I meant you had nothing stopping you from following your dream.”

“But I have a kid.”

“But he doesn't live with you, right? So his livelihood doesn't depend on your current financial state. But I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—I mean, I would never want to hurt you. I can’t imagine what you had to go through, but I respect you for your decision. Not seeing your kid but knowing.”

“I see him. Every weekend.”

I was too embarrassed to say shit.

“Rufus, it's okay.”

She smiled and was falling asleep during my apology.
 

“If you want to stay, you could sleep on the couch in the living room.”

The what?
 

“You know, I'll think I'll go home.”

“Okay.”

I walked to the subway station with mixed feelings. Pissed from getting out of a cab in a ghetto-ass part of Brooklyn and having to wait an hour for the subway at four in the morning. Perturbed by no nookie. But I felt guilty for the unintentional pain inflicted. My mixed feelings were reflective of how I viewed dating women with kids.

It stems from the fact that I love kids and hope to have them one day. The prospect of being with a woman that already has kids troubles me, because I would like to spend time with my partner sans kids for a while before having our own. The emphasis is on “our own,” not because I want a virgin, but because I don't want to deal with someone else's daddy/family/DNA. When I discipline my kid, I don't want him to say “you're not my daddy.” In fact, I'd bust him/her upside his/her head with much quickness and fury just for talking shit.
 

This situation was weirder. The woman had a kid, but no responsibility for him. I would have to deal with the baggage of the kid without dealing with the kid or his father.
 

However, she had the paunch.

The paunch of pregnancy isn’t a bad thing. It’s a symbol of sacrifice. The place where one’s children spawned. I don’t have a problem with a woman having a paunch…as long as it’s from my kids. The fact that the paunch was from some punk-ass, deadbeat loser who homegirl was stupid enough to schtup without protection was a little much. However, I could deal.

I had more respect for her. Mind you, I'm pro-choice, and if I were the father, I'd suggest abortion—however, for her to carry a child and deliver it, with the knowledge that she'd never be with it, is something I not only biologically could not experience, but emotionally couldn’t fathom. What made matters worse was if she was forced/bullied to have the kid. Plus, she knew where the kid was and couldn’t tell him she's his mother. I couldn’t imagine what that was like. I heard stories from my parents’ generation about pregnant girls going down south, but in the twenty-first century? All of these issues surfacing from life experiences that she dealt with daily made me admire her strength. I thought it would strengthen our relationship.
 

I thought she'd like some Stevie Wonder, so I let her borrow my box set. She loved it.

However, the next time I went out with her, something had changed. She wanted to be an actress and not a writer/director. Instead of spending her time writing, she wanted to go for auditions.
 

“I wish I could be Kim Kardashian. Without that icky tape about, you know.”

“What?”

“The icky-wicky.”

Baby talk. That night, I was driven crazy. This woman—educated, insightful, having her heart broken, and delivering a love child only to set it up for adoption—regressed. The baby talk was bad enough before I knew her deal. But now? It was bullshit. I resented her for not being more mature. For not being stronger. For regressing. For auditioning for rap videos instead of writing. All of those things, plus a minor issue. She brought some buff dude to her party.
 

I thought I could deal, but I couldn't. So I bounced.

It was relatively mutual. I stopped calling. She never called.
 

A week later, I ran into her at Krueller. She had completed a short about choosing life or abortion when faced with the birth of a horribly disfigured child. The feared abomination turned out to be a gorgeous child. It was kind of a metaphor, I guess, to what I feared her becoming versus what she actually became. She was quitting the firm to follow filmmaking full-time. She still owed me my Stevie Wonder and said she'd return it. I told her she could bring it back anytime at Krueller, but hoped it wouldn't be when I was in. Turned out she had a similar feeling, and dropped it off with security.
 

I never saw Kimmi again.

48

TANI AND I
went to a Krueller party that was typical for New York: cuties, a scene, and music…but nowhere to dance. I dabbled in rum to drown my dancing doldrums, then I saw a striking woman staring in the direction of my crew, which consisted of Tani and some cock-blocking friend of his named Sasha. My partners in crime wondered aloud as to who she was checking out. I, being the veteran, proclaimed that I would find out. To their amazement, and mine (damn, I was buzzed), I strolled to the honey and started kicking some game. What did I say? Who knows? I was drunk as a skunk. She was tall, dark-skinned, and stacked. Tani, aware of potential blocking, kept Sasha occupied so she wouldn’t stare down the honey, viscerally humiliate her, or butt in.
 

Her name was Felice.
 

And she was a partner who had some charity. And loved to sing.

My protection?

After getting the digits, I strutted to my adoring crewmates.

Tani said, “How the did you pull that off, Rufus?”

I belched. “I was drunk and I didn’t give a fuck. You young’uns should’ve been taking notes.”

I called her and said, “I really enjoyed meeting you. I mean, learning how you are bridging philanthropy and your artistic talent?”

“’Twas nothing.”

“Look, you want to catch a drink this Thursday?”

“I would be so glad to have a drink with you on Thursday, only that I have a previous commitment.”

Here it comes.
“You do?”

“An invitation stuffing on Saturday for an event I am doing for my organization. But I am available for a drink on Wednesday evening, which would also be wonderful, should you have time.”

There was no way I’d do coffee and manual labor. “Wednesday it is.”

***

It rained buckets that night. I met her at an Ethiopian restaurant. She arrived as breathtaking as the night we’d met. Since my friends had seen her and proclaimed her fineness, I knew I didn’t have beer goggles…that night.

Since she said she had a rough week, I thought we’d order a bottle of wine. She wanted a glass. It didn’t get any better.
 

She talked about having old parents, feeling burned out, was intrigued by my being a law student. She said her brother was a drummer. We spoke about the arts nonprofit where I’d interned, and everything was pleasant until she said…

“I heard a story about a person who knew they wanted to marry someone. So, before even asking for their hand in marriage, they booked a chapel, wrote invitations, and bought a dress.”

“Pretty risky. I mean, how did they know?”

“Know what?”

“That the other person was down.”

“They just knew.”

“But how?”

“They just knew. Like love at first sight.”

“Guess it depends on how you define love.”

She looked at me like I had a little man who had jumped out of my mouth and defecated on her.

“What do you mean ‘it depends on how you define love’?”

“Love at first sight means you see someone, right?”

“Right.”

“And you immediately fall for them.”

“Exactly.”

“But what are you falling for if you don’t know them?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It doesn’t?”

“You love them.”

“Love them for what?”

“For who they are.”

“But who are they? And is it infatuation? Lust?”

“You either love or you don’t.”

“I’m not trying to be rude, I’m just trying to figure out—”

“Have you ever been in love?”